La Belle au bois dormant
by Dreamicide
Summary: After the hell he went through to save her, look at how she repays him. She goddamn sleeps while he mercilessly violates her. Dark. — FakirAhiru


**notes:** originally written one year ago, and i am finally brave enough to share with the world.  
**warnings:** non-con. i am not kidding. this fic is inspired by one of the darker versions of sleeping beauty where the prince rapes the princess as she sleeps. please read with caution, or exit the page if necessary.  
**post-series.**

* * *

**_La Belle au bois dormant_**

She's finally beneath him, in her rightful place.

Fakir leans over her, studying her relaxed expression, and softly tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. He has to make sure she's real—that she's really there.

It's been years, he thinks. He's not quite sure how many, though. He stopped counting a long time ago. Instead, he counts pages, words.

Anything to bring her back, that's what he devoted himself to in that time. And it's only natural he's cautious as he looms over her lithe body—after all, far too many mistakes have been made in the past.

His writing is not up to par. It never has been, but it was only obvious when he tried to go against reality like a fish against the strongest river current. Still, he wrote, never ceasing hope.

Uncompleted stories produced grotesque and abominable things, he quickly discovered in the first few weeks. He can't even willingly recall them to mind anymore, not unless he feels the need to vomit. Really, being a storyspinner was a daunting responsibility. Fakir felt Drosselmeyer's stubborn continuation to be foolish; having his hands forcibly chopped off would have been a blessing.

The thought of Ahiru being human again and in his arms was the only thing that drove him forward. It didn't matter he was going back on his word and changing what mustn't be changed. Sometimes words aren't enough. Not even the ones with the right ink ratio and written with a duck's feather.

But the years of slaving over his desk and shutting himself out from the rest of the world finally bore fruit.

Fakir keeps his place over the unconscious girl, fingers touching at her cheek, and he says her name.

She doesn't respond, but he can feel her breath brush against his palm.

Fakir steps back and tells himself that she will wake. He will wait.

* * *

He keeps her in his bed for the next several days, and by the second week he's practically tearing his hair out in frustration. This is the first time he had managed to get her entire human body to function—so why won't she move? She breathes, she dreams. What is stopping her from sitting up and greeting him with an appreciative smile?

Fakir comes to the conclusion that once again he made a mistake in his writing. He's more than used to messing up by now, but before he was always able to start over and try again. Now she is there, alive and _Ahiru_, and he's too damn apprehensive to try and take it all back again.

At the bedside is where he stays most of the time. Sitting, thinking, watching, waiting. He wants her to smile at him, just once. He wants to see the surprise on her face and subsequent gratitude.

But the day doesn't come, and he waits.

* * *

In the following month Fakir starts to grow angry with her. He writes her back, he feeds her, he keeps her healthy, and what does she do? She sleeps. She sleeps and interacts with him far less than she ever did as a duck.

It's foolish that he's so infuriated, but he is. All he wants is to hear her voice, and not even that is granted to him.

He glares at her sleeping form, tucked under the sheets and looking peaceful while he's almost losing his mind from needing her. From having her so close to him and yet… not there at all.

She's warm. He knows how warm she is from cupping her cheeks, feeling her forehead, and tracing her lips for so many days. She's also soft, the very softest, and he knows from those moments he breaks over her.

Fakir moans helplessly when he tastes her. He always makes noise against her. He releases his pent up frustration because _god_ she's right there and _damn_ she won't respond to him and _fuck_ he's aching for her.

His hands peel back the thin bed sheet that just traces so perfectly over her minute curves. He tugs it down to her knees and goes back to trailing over her with the tips of his fingers. Her shoulders. Waist. Belly. Lower. Higher. Back to her cheeks and he's never looked more infuriated in his entire life.

In a moment quick as lightning, his hands fist in her hair and he devours her, pulling at her almost erratically. He's so damn angry at her. After the hell he went through to save her, look at how she repays him. She goddamn _sleeps_ while he mercilessly violates her.

Ahiru's already bare in her bed when he crawls over her. He's stopped clothing her after the first few days—they were nothing more than pointless troubles. And as usual, her face shows no change. He pins himself above her, glaring and livid, just daring her to wake up and slap him away.

When she doesn't, he bites her lip as hard as he can and he enjoys the taste of her skin breaking.

Fakir always has to wonder how she would take this sort of attention. If she regained consciousness in the middle of it. Surely it would appall her, but he is just too gone to care and remember—his best fantasies include reciprocation and her inevitable submission.

_You need to do as I tell you_, he whispers in her ear while a hand snakes down between their bodies. He touches her, feels her inside and out, and closes his eyes to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Not a single inch of her is left unseen. Even her legs and feet, he crawls down to caress and kiss and pay special attention to, right before digging a nail into her ankle and dragging it across her skin.

Her warmth is unchanging while his own escalates higher and higher, grunting out her name as he forces himself into her with a thrust. She's not wet, and he doesn't give a damn. He only holds to her, wrapping his arms around her comatose body and takes her for himself over and over again.

Fakir deserves it. He deserves it for the nightmares and hallucinations and that feeling of absolute emptiness he always woke up to when she wasn't there. For every day he grew sick in the stomach from his own words, every hour he takes care of her, every minute she doesn't respond to him, and every second he thinks of her.

The room is quiet, so quiet, except for his wavered breathing and small moans, the sheets shifting under her as he moves in and out of her.

_Beautiful_, he murmurs into her ear. _Beautiful_, and _sweet_, and _mine, _and _ahhn_….

She feels so good. She's an angel, even if she's endlessly torturing his sanity, but it's fine. He will figure everything out.

Fakir knows the day he will correct his mistake will come soon. He knows she will wake up in due time. But that day isn't today, and he continues damaging her, ignoring the harsh stains on his bed.

He promises to himself that he will fix everything. He vows in her ear that he will bring her back. And it's always on that declaration when he comes, jerking himself into her on a rough note that would make any conscious woman scream for mercy and holding his body to her while he empties himself on a helpless groan.

And then he always stays there, for hours sometimes, neglecting to continue his writing or tend to the house. Just devoting every waking breath he has to her—this unappreciative girl who can't even wake up and hold him while he breaks down and stains her skin with tears.

It really should be concerning how much his stability fluctuates at the drop of a hat ever since the first story ended. But to Fakir it's simply unimportant compared to the sheer need to bring her back—and _without making mistakes. _

And after he finally regains his composure before getting up to clean her body off, Fakir stares at her fondly but with an underlying rage.

**End**


End file.
